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Episode Thirty: Season Finale (Revised)




“I still think this is a horrible idea,” Sarah Mankiller says, fussing over Fausta and Fortuna Orobas like a mother hen over her chicks.

“This is the only way we can become citizens of Cryptatown,” Fausta says with a heavy patience. “Fortuna, stop tugging at your dress; you’ll get it wrinkled.”

“Sorry,” Fortuna grumbles, tucking her hands inside her armpits.

“You don’t have to pledge yourself to that tyrant!” Sarah insists. “We can take you in! The Commune will protect you—”

“I thought,” Fausta says, brushing stray flecks of dust off the sleeves of her silk suit, “that this Alder could crush your Commune without any significant effort.”

Sarah blinks. “Did I say that? I must have said that...but that was before I went toe to toe with a demon lord.” She grins and toys with a strand of her long black hair. “I guess the Alder’s authority doesn’t scare me as much these days.”

If the Alder didn’t scare Sarah, you think sardonically, she wouldn’t be wearing a dark blue sundress or the bright brass caps around her antlers.

Fausta and Fortuna acquired some fancy skirts and blouses from the local tailor (thankfully, without need to sacrifice portions of their skin).

You yourself are clad in your cleanest silk shirt and freshest black pants. You’d fiddled desperately with a clothes iron before giving up and starching the creases clean with magic.

It’s almost like you lot are headed to a wedding.

If only. The appointment you mean to keep is more likely to turn into a funeral.

“Please, chum,” Sarah pleads to Fausta in a whisper. “Don’t submit to her authority.”

Fausta smiles—with her human face, not her owl one. “It’s not her authority that I’m worried about,” she says to Sarah.

Sarah presses a hand against her brow, covering up her left eye. “Just…think about it,” she tells Fausta. “Don’t sell yourself short, okay?”

Fausta nods once and gives her daughter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She reaches out and slams the wrought iron doorknocker against the twin oak doors.

Thud.

Thud.

The Alder’s home office seems to groan with each door knock, as if an ancient leviathan were rising up from the ocean depths.

The sound dies down. Nothing happens.

“There should be an intercom,” Fausta says with disapproval. “Or a website. A toll-free number at least.”

Sarah shudders. “Probably not a good idea, chum,” she says hastily. “The Alder likes her privacy.”

“If she governs this town,” Fausta says, face a mask of stubbornness, “she needs to listen to her constituents—”

“I get where you’re coming from,” Sarah interjects, “but it’s a slippery slope you’re talking about. With phones come answering machines. With answering machines come secretaries. With secretaries come offices. With offices come bureaucracy, and with bureaucracy comes special interest groups.” A haunted look crosses Sarah’s face. “The last time the Alder was pestered by a lobbyist...”

The thick oak double doors groan and slide open, revealing a dark hallway lit by dancing lights.

You all go tense.

“You were saying something about lobbyists?” Fausta suggests. “The Alder was pestered by a solicitor and then...?”

“...and then Rome burned.” Sarah says.

Oh. I see. She was the one behind that?

I may have underestimated this Alder of yours. Oh, if I were free, I could crush her with the ease of a human smashing an insect. But still, I’ve underestimated her.

Your thoughts stink of disapproval and—what’s that?—fear as well. Fear that my ramblings will keep you off balance and lure you into making a treacherous mistake while talking with the Alder.

Good. 

“There’s no shame in bugging out,” you say out loud.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Fausta says harshly. “Either of you.”

“Mom.” Fortuna frowns at her mother.

Fausta, winces, then sighs and calms down. “My tone was inappropriate,” she says more gently. “You’ve both done us more than enough service. If you wish to return home, do so with pride.”

You consider for a moment.

“Eh,” Sarah says, shrugging in an attempt at nonchalance. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“I’ve got questions of my own.” You tug the brim of your hat in an effort to appear nonchalant. “Might as well piggyback on your thing.”

“Very well,” Fausta says, exhaling. “Come along, sweetie.”

The four of you walk into the dark hallway, a narrow passage with walls that seem to be made of shadow.

Fireflies light your way: buzzing, black-winged fireflies whose abdomens pulse with a yellow-green light. They dance through the air, a display that reminds you of beautiful childhood summer nights by the lake. You hold onto those fine memories, desperately pretending you’re not walking into an eerie sanctum with your companions to go and see a terrifyingly powerful city administrator—

Wait.

Wait a minute. Isn’t this a bit similar to The Wizard of Oz? It is! You’ve even go a young girl with a pet dog in tow...!

A slender hand seizes your wrist.

“Diesel!” Sarah hisses. “Front and center!”

You blink, jostled out of your daydream.

You look back and see Sarah, Fausta, and Fortuna starring at you with fright-stricken faces.

You look forward and see the Alder, sitting on a tall, gothic throne made entirely from gold-plated human bones.

Your heart skips a beat.

The Alder. The ruler of Cryptatown. The Sanguine Seer.

The Charnel Countess.

You’ve talked to her numerous times through proxies…but this is the first time you’ve ever met face to face.

She wears a chainmail shirt of burnished silver rings, white fur ruffs lining her sleeves and collar. Gold chains run from her long, pointed ears to her round, curved nose, a veil of gold that stretches across her brown, freckled cheeks.

Fireflies swarm over her head like a crown, the light from their abdomens reflecting off her blood-red eyes. Her eyelids crinkle; you almost fancy you can see a glimmer of amusement as she stares down at you.

“Greetings, scum,” the Alder says in a deep melodious voice. “What brings you here in such array?” She smiles, revealing a pair of pearl-white fangs. “Are you solicitors, by chance?”

You swallow, take a step back, and avert your eyes, worried those blood-red orbs will suck you in and never let go.

That’s when you notice Jellyfish Stan.

The vampire blood dealer who attacked you yesterday.

Kneeling at the Alder’s feet.

Being used as a footstool, to be precise.

“Hey,” you say to Stan.

Stan glares back up your way. “You,” she hisses, her voice swollen with hate. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“Huh?”

Stan snorts with a sudden contempt and shakes out her greasy locks like a wet dog. “Figures you’d be too stupid to see it,” she mutters. “You’ve kicked the ant hill over, ain’t ya? Let the ants so scurrying around all mad-like.”

“Um,” you say.

Stan makes a sputtering sound. “When you took out Morgaeous, you dropped the bottom out of the meat market! You created one of them power vacuums and left poor old Stan in the lurch!”

“Silence, scum,” the Alder says, tapping the back of Jellyfish Stan’s head with her nice black pumps.

Stan’s head sloughs off her body, dangling from her neck by a wet, gray esophagus. You suddenly think of lobster claws, and how the meat squirts out if you squeeze it just right.

Fortuna stares at the sight of Stan with an open, gaping mouth. To your slight surprise, Fausta does nothing to shield her daughter’s innocence. Sarah’s the one who winds up covering the little girl’s eyes.

At this, the Alder smirks. “Censorship from you, Sarah?” she says. “Doesn’t that go against your ideals?”

Sarah grimaces and glares at the absolute ruler of Cryptatown.

The Alder’s smile deepens. “Delightful,” she whispers, turning to look at Fortuna and Fausta. “Make yourself presentable before the girl, scum,” she says, tapping Stan on the back.

Jellyfish Stan makes a gulping noise and sucks her head back onto her body.

She keeps glaring at you. You do your best to return her hostile stares.

“Well, well, well,” the Alder says, leaning her chin on her hand as she slouches on her throne. “A Demon Legionnaire and her little Nephilim.”

What the—?

Damn, you think. Of course she’d know.

“What bring you to my lovely community?” the Alder asks.

Fausta briefly turns her gaze from the ruler of Cryptatown to take one brief glance at her girl.

Then she summons her black iron pistol into her hands.

Sarah gasps. Jellyfish Stan yelps.

You feel a scream of dismay bubbling up from the bottom of your throat, a wholehearted blast of dismay and denial.

You see the Alder’s bloody eyes narrow ever so slightly.

In a smooth, practiced motion, Fausta flips her pistol around, gripping the piece of iron by the elongated barrel. She sinks down to one knee and kneels, just like a knight out of some Arthurian romance. To cap it all off, she holds her pistol out to the Alder, brandishing it like the hilt of a sword.

“I offer you my service, lady liege,” Fausta says, eyes downcast as she abases herself. “I would be your loyal subject, an instrument to work your will.” Fausta’s mouth twists. “A weapon in your hands, if you wish.”

You twitch in alarm. Sarah looks queasy.

“Mom!” Fortuna blurts out. “No! Don’t say that!”

The Alder raises her hand, a smooth, slender hand with long, long lacquered nails. “Silence.”

Fortuna goes quiet, trembling like a sapling before an incoming typhoon

The Alder looks down at Jellyfish Stan. “Go,” she tells the Penanggalan vampire. “You’ve paid your debt for today.”

Stan opens her mouth to grumble, but sees the grim look on the Alder’s face and seems to decide against it. Stan shucks out of her corpse-body, her trachea, lungs and intestines sliding out of her neck. She swoops into the air and flies off into the darkness, leaving the rest of her body behind, frozen in a posture of Ottoman supplication.

The Alder crosses her legs and tilts her head to the side. “Strange,” she says to Fausta. “People have offered their firstborn sons and spilled oceans of blood to avoid getting into my debt.” Her mouth creeps up in a half-smile. “You must be desperate.”

“I have a duty of love,” Fausta says softly, glancing at her petrified daughter. “Your rank and name would keep her safe.”

“You just want the protection of my name, then?” the Alder says, red lips parting in a cruel smile. Fireflies swirl over her head in a thickening cloud. “What would you give for my name?”

“Anything,” Fausta whispers.

Fortuna makes a choking sound. Sarah looks like she’s about to have a heart attack.

Reflexively, your hand drifts to the hilt of your sword. A suicidal gesture, but the Alder doesn’t seem to notice your gaffe.

“Would you become my slave?” the Alder asks, voice silken and coy.

“If that is your will,” Fausta replies without hesitation.

The Alder’s smile vanishes; the fireflies swarming over her head abruptly scatter into the darkness. “Wrong answer.”

Fausta starts. “My lady...?” she says, face etched with confusion.

“I am not one of your Legion Legates, Demon,” the Alder tells Fausta. “If you’re looking for a pompous warlord to take the burden of thinking for yourself away, I’m afraid I will disappoint you.” The ruler of Cryptatown leans back into her skeleton throne. “Leave now,” she proclaims. “You bore me.”

Fausta flinches like a child who’s just been spanked.

Fortuna takes her mother’s hand and tugs it quietly. Fausta resists for a moment, then listlessly lets her daughter drag her back.

Sarah sighs in relief. You pry your hand free from the hilt of your sheathed bronze sword and tap your fingers politely against the brim of your hat.

You all turn to leave. And then the Alder speaks up again.

“God’s blood,” she says with a huff of breath. “Don’t you lot have any backbone?”

Fausta turns back and bows slightly at the waist. “If my company displeases you, Lady Alder,” she says smoothly, “it would be rude to linger.”

“I’ll decide what what’s rude, not you,” the Alder replies, steepling her long fingers together in a gesture of thought. “Stop waffling about and ask your question.”

You and Sarah share a glance.

What’s she doing, you mouth?

I don’t know, Sarah mouths back.

“What should I ask you?” Fausta asks.

The Alder sighs loudly: “Ask me why I don’t want a slave.”

“Why don’t you want a slave?” Fausta asks.

“Because of the Law of Cryptatown,” the Alder says, the fireflies around her flaring bright as she speaks. “The single law I laid down when I took this community for my own.”

Fausta’s brow twists in confusion.

“Oh!” Fortuna blurts out. “The Law of Claw! Like Grobach said!”

Everyone, you included, turns to look at her.

Fortuna wilts and tries to vanish beneath the collar of her jacket and hoodie.

“Correct, Nephilim,” the Alder says, raising her left hand and curling it into a claw shape. “No law but Law of Claw. No rule but rule of strength.” The Alder’s face grows pensive. “Do you think I rule this town solely with strength of muscle and magic?”

“No,” Fausta instantly replies. “A leader needs many qualities in order to be effective: charisma, strategic acumen, conviction.”

The Alder nods grudgingly. “That’s more like it,” she says softly. “You’re correct, demon: strength comes in a thousand different permutations.”

She looks at you, bright crimson eyes seeming to stare straight into your soul. “There’s the strength of responsibility and remorse,” she says softly.

She turns to Sarah: “The strength of ideals and passion.”

To Fausta and Fortuna: “Even the strength of love.” A rueful smile crosses the Alder’s lips. “One day, with luck, I will gain the power of love myself.”

You blink. You don’t know what you had expected when you got up this morning, but you certainly didn’t plan on hearing a bloody tyrant wax eloquent about the power of love.

In truth, the Alder’s behavior confounds me as well; is this sentimentality, or—?

“I must experience and test myself against all these forms of strength if I’m going to become a more perfect being,” the Alder says in a soft, contemplative tone. She gives Fausta a sour look. “Knowing all that, do you really think I want to lord over a town of slaves and weaklings?”

Fausta shakes her head. “No,” she says. She looks...uncertain.

The Alder stares at Fausta, brow pinched and wrinkled. Her left fingers tap against the armrest of her throne—an armrest literally shaped from a pair of arm bones.

An interview, you realize, the revelation striking you like a thunderbolt. The Alder is interviewing her. But Fausta’s out of her element. She needs a hint—some guidelines by which she can properly market herself.

Sarah beats you to the punch.

“She wants an employee,” she says to Fausta. “Tell her about your good points.”

You look at Sarah with surprise. The Deer-Woman turns her head away from you, avoiding eye contact. Her hooves clip back and forth against the stone floor as she fidgets.

“Why, Sarah,” the Alder says, her smile white and deep. ’You continue to astound me. Are you actually trying to help Ms. Orobas swear herself to my tyranny?”

“She’s made up her mind,” Sarah says softly. “I’ve got to respect and honor the choice she makes. But maybe that’s not something you understand...chum.”

“Heh,” the Alder whispers, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps not.” She turns back to Fausta. “So then, Demon. Don’t be shy: what qualities do you have that could serve my desires?”

The glaze of confusion in Fausta’s eyes clears. “I...” she says, hesitantly at first, and then with increasing confidence. “I served in the 5th Pandemonium Legion for over five centuries,” she says. “After a span of distinguished service, I was transferred into the Terrestrial Covert Operations Secretariat—”

“I’m familiar with the Tempter Brigade,” the Alder says with a growl and a wave of her hand. “Get to the point. What skills do you offer?”

“I have centuries worth of experience in all forms of ranged and close-quarters combat, from heavy weaponry to the Hellfire arts.” Fausta recites the facts with dry, matter-of-fact-diction. “I operated undercover on Earth for years, recruiting numerous assets for the Legion and sabotaging numerous Church – and Heaven-backed operations.” A touch of pride enters her voice. “I was never caught or exposed.”

“Even when you betrayed your oath and went rogue?” the Alder asks, leaning forward in her throne.

All pride vanishes from Fausta. “...yes,” she says softly.

“You betrayed your country and people in every possible way,” the Alder states.

“No,” Fausta says, her voice hollow.

“Even with five centuries to understand your personality, they never saw your betrayal coming,” the Alder says.

Fausta closes her eyes. “That’s correct.”

“If I accept you into my service, how can I be sure you won’t betray me in the same way?”

Fausta’s voice is the toll of a funeral bell. “You can’t,” she says honestly.

Fortuna, silent for so long at her mother’s side, can’t hold her words back any more. “She didn’t mean that,” she says loudly, stepping in front of Fausta and staring the Alder right in her red nightmare eyes. “Mom doesn’t mean that! She only left her country because they asked her to do something bad!”

Dimples appear in the Alder’s cheeks as she cracks a huge grin. “Magnificent,” she whispers.

“Huh?” Fortuna says, tilting her head to the side.

“Pardon?” Fausta says, looking up.

“You would burn the sun itself if it meant saving your daughter’s life,” the Alder says. “It’s simply magnificent.”

Fortuna shakes her head frantically. “Mom wouldn’t do that,” she insists. She bites her lip: “And if she did, I wouldn’t let her.”

The Alder inclines her head toward Fortuna. “Such is the power of love,” she remarks.

“Huh?” Fortuna says

The Alder unfolds her legs and rises up from her skeleton throne. “I’m currently looking for someone to be my public Emissary,” she explains. “Her duties will involve arranging meetings, delivering my decrees to citizens, and punishing enemies beneath my notice. She must be talented, professional, patient while interacting with overconfident fools––”

The Alder raises a ruby-nailed finger.

“––and constantly scheming to kill and overthrow me.”

Fausta looks completely floored. “Are you serious?” She asks.

“Completely,” the Alder says, the fireflies around her pulsing with a merry light. “Feel free to think this offer over. Come back to me with a response tomorrow afternoon.”

“I...” Fausta’s brow wrinkles up. “Understood, my lady.”

“Then go,” the Alder says, waving her hand in a brush-off gesture. “Now. Before I get bored.”

Fausta bows slightly and steps back. “C’mon, sweetie,” she whispers to Fortuna.

“Mm-Hm!” Fortuna goes with her mother.

Sarah turns to follow them.

“Sarah? Dieselnoi?” the Alder says. “I was hoping you two could stay.” She looks you up and down, appraising like a new piece of furniture. “I’m positively burning with questions.”

The Deer-woman stops mid-stride.

“Sarah…Diesel…” Fausta says, looking at you both with concern. "Will you be alright?"

“Don’t worry,” Sarah tells them with a wink and a smile. “We’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

“Very well,” Fausta says after a moment. “Come on, Fortuna,” she says, taking her girl by the hand.

Fausta and Fortuna leave the Alder’s chambers, a demon mother and her half-human daughter marching towards a bright, hopeful future.

The moment they’re gone, the already dark throne room seems to grow even darker.

Sarah’s pleasant smile vanishes. You feel the fake cheer on your face slip away as well.

“I like them,” the Alder says. “I honestly didn’t expect that.”

She stands up from her throne, kicks the headless body of Jellyfish Stan to the side, and strolls down the velvet carpet towards you. “Now that we’re all alone,” she says, turning her gaze towards Sarah, “there are proprieties to be observed.”

She stretches out her arm, pointing a single long nail towards Sarah. “Kneel, servant,” she commands.

Sarah’s left eye flares with a hot neon light. Her knees wobble back and forth. She stumbles and nearly falls.

Nearly, that is.

Up...yours...pig,” she hisses between her clenched teeth.

The Alder throws her head back and laughs in delight. “Marvelous!” She says. “Simply marvelous!”

She lowers her finger. Sarah gasps with relief as an invisible weight lifts from her.

“Long, long ago,” the Alder says, “the humans of old tried to domesticate wild wolves by throwing them in cages and giving them scraps of meat. Some of these wolves submitted and gave birth to generations of dogs…but some refuse to be tamed.” She gives Sarah a smile full of fangs. “That’s why I like you, Sarah,” she says. “After all this time, you’re still a wild wolf!”

Sarah’s eyes narrow into thin slits. “Careful,” she tells the Alder, frost in her voice. “Like you say, I’m not a pet dog. I don’t like being patted on the head. I don’t like treats. And I don’t like people labeling me with half-baked, ham-fisted ‘noble savage’ analogies.”

The Alder grimaces…and to your surprise, she bows her head ever so slightly. “Fairly put,” she says to Sarah. “I’ll try to avoid such thoughtless remarks in the future.”

“I’m sure you will, chum,” Sarah says coldly.

“To more interesting matters, then,” the Alder says brightly, turning towards you. “You were there for most of Diesel’s freelance assignment, Sarah: how well did he perform, in your opinion? Does he have the mettle and proficiency needed to become one of my Private Eyes?”

You hold your breath. This is it: the moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating and fretfully dreading. The moment you’ve been working towards, the chance to uncover the grimy, hardboiled mysteries to make up this world…

“He’s hopeless,” Sarah bluntly tells the Alder.

The anticipation and dread curdles in your gut, transmuting themselves into a feeling of shock.

“Is that so?” The Alder says.

“He’s naïve when he should be suspicious, and too much the loner when he should be counting on others,” Sarah tells her boss. “He charges in recklessly, uses his magic like a cudgel, and doesn’t think through the consequences of his actions.” She shakes her head ruefully. “If you make him your Private Eye, he’ll get the people around him killed.”

Sarah’s betrayal cuts you deep…particularly since it came out of left field. After all the times you risked your life to protect her, to help her…this is the thanks you get.

You’re just about to turn your back and storm off…when the Alder speaks again.

“Oh, Sarah,” she says, shaking her head in mild disappointment. “You’re still far too obvious with your intentions.”

Sarah grimaces and lowers her head. “Dammit,” she whispers.

“Wait…” You say, slowly figuring out. “Are you trying to sabotage me, Sarah? After I told you how much I wanted this Job?”

“THIS ISN”T A JOB!” Sarah shouts, her left eye burning with firefly light.

Job, Job, Job….

Sarah’s words echo through the vastness of the Alder’s office, fading ever so slowly.

“Being her Private Eye isn’t a job,” Sarah tells you. “It’s servitude.” She points at her glowing left eye. “Once she puts this in you, she’ll never let you go. She’ll keep sending you to hound her enemies and sniff out secrets until you die or go mad. Do you understand me?” Sarah rests a hand on your shoulders and shakes you back and forth. “There’s no retirement plan, no severance package. If you join her, it’s for keeps.”

You look past Sarah towards the Alder.

The Alder shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “That is basically true,” she admits.

“Diesel,” Sarah pleads. “Whatever you’re hoping to get from her, it’s not worth it.”

“Do you regret it?” You ask her. “Taking the Alder’s offer?”

“…if I hadn’t taken her offer, she would have killed my comrades,” Sarah whispers after a moment’s hesitation. “I couldn’t just run away and leave them to die…”

“So you don’t regret becoming her Private Eye,” you say.

“I had other people to worry about!” Sarah shouts. “You don’t!”

“That’s not quite true,” you say, pulling Sarah’s hand off your shoulder and giving it what you hope is a reassuring squeeze. “So,” you say to the Alder. “Is our bargain still good?”

“The terms have not changed,” the Alder said, a pleased smirk on her face. “Serve me well as one of my Eyes, and I will use all the power at my disposal to destroy anyone who tries to steal your Demon-Sealing Hat.”

Sarah’s eyes widen: “So that’s why–?”

“That was my original goal, yes,” you tell Sarah, tugging the brim of your hat down over your eyes. “You’ve seen what that demon can do in the wrong hands.”

“So you’re going to trust its safety to the freaking Alder?” Sarah says incredulously. She points a shaking finger towards the rule of Cryptatown. “I mean, look at her! She’s sitting on a throne made of skeletons!”

The Alder laughs low and long. “Would you rather trust the Demon-sealing Hat to an idealist, Sarah? A pure-hearted soul who wants to make the world a better place?” She shakes her head. “They’d steal Diesel’s hat and summon the Demon in less than a week for the sake of the greater good. No, Sarah: Diesel knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Well,” you admit. “I thought I did.”

The Alder goes very still. “Oh?” She says.

“At first, I thought I wanted to keep this safe at all costs,” you say, tapping the side of your hat. “Then I thought I was indulging in some sort of twisted guilt trip, serving and helping the monsters I used to hunt and hurt. But now…”

“Now?” Sarah asks.

“Now?” The Alder asks, raising her eyebrow.

Now?

You shrug. “I don’t know,” you say.

…are you trying to mock us, Diesel? What do you mean, you don’t know?

“I used to think the world fell into easy categories,” you tell the Alder. “Humans good, creatures bad. This magic is light. This magic is dark. Even when I realized things weren’t so simple, I still clung to those categories…because I didn’t want to admit how little I knew.”

“Everyone wants to feel safe, Diesel,” Sarah tells you, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll be safe in the Alder’s service...”

“It’s not about being safe,” you tell Sarah, cutting her off. “You said it yourself. The Alder’s going to send me chasing after secrets and mysteries until the day I die.” You shrug casually. “I was going to do that anyway, so I might as well get a magical eye out of it.”

Sarah opens her mouth to raise some other point.

“Enough, Sarah,” the Alder says. “You talk on and on about the power of autonomy and choice, do you not? Let the boy make his choice.”

You see Sarah’s jawline ripple as she grinds her teeth together. “What if she gives you a mission you can’t accept?” She asks you. “An order that goes against everything you stand for?”

You mull over Sarah’s questions carefully before giving your answer.

“I suppose,” you say at last. “We’ll have to find a way to overthrow her.”

A moment passes.

Sarah grins.

“Fair enough, chum,” she says. “Just don’t come crying to me when you find yourself in over your head.”

You give Sarah a thumbs-up and walk towards the Alder. You see the Alder beckon to one of her fireflies, which swoops from the air and lands in her open palm.

“I’ve got one more term to add to our bargain,” you tell the Alder. “Take it or leave it.”

“I am willing to listen to this term,” the Alder says, “provided it’s not too ridiculous.”

“The monster hunter, Mandrake Kayne,” you tell her. “Let me take care of him.”

“That man," the Alder says with distaste, “caused a ruckus in my town.”

“I’ll stop him from causing any more trouble,” you say, folding your arms over your chest, “but I’ll do it my way.”

You meet her eyes, starring directly into her blood-red orbs. This is a bad idea you realize. You shouldn’t be locking gazes with a monster as powerful and ancient as this. But how else are you supposed to show her your resolve…?

“I reserve the right to step in if you fail to keep the hunter contained,” the Alder says at last. “Otherwise…” She gives you the slightest of nods. “I do not find these terms objectionable.”

“Ohthankgods…” You whisper out of reflex. You cough loudly, straighten your back and try to strike a dashing pose. “I mean, good, good. Things could have gotten ugly there for a second….”

The Alder step into your personal space and lays a well-manicured hand on your shoulder.

From the outside, the gesture appears oddly tender and intimate. You, however, can feel her fingers clamp down on your shoulder-bone with the strength of steel, a solidity that pins you in place.

The Alder holds the firefly in her hand up for you to inspect. “I have no narcotics to give you,” she explains. “Nor will I count to three. The moment you tell me you are ready, it will be done.” The jovial smirk fades from her lips, leaving only a grave, serious expression. “Are you ready?” She asks.

Don’t sweat, you tell yourself. Don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Face the fright and uncertainty of the world and stare it straight down until it gives up its secrets.

Like a true, hardboiled private eye would.

“I am–“ you say.

Before you can pronounce the word ‘ready’, the Alder’s nails sink into the corner of your eye socket.

You try not to scream, with mixed results.

#

Three days later, you head down to Cold Iron Crossing to see Felix and Grobach Lynn on their way.

You’d only seen this subway tunnel through black-and-white film reels. In person, you’re surprise to see how much...filthier the tunnels are in person.

The concrete steps are covered with slime and old flakes of plaster. The walls are covered with tracks of rust, water lines, and other suspicious stains. Weeds and mushrooms grow up from cracks in the ground. The faint stench of mildew and rat feces fills the air. This subway is a pigsty.

And yet....

The murals, faded as they are, have a strange ethereal beauty to them, the beauty of an old pyramid or cave painting. The weeds and mushrooms have blossoms and flower petals which gleam with a golden light, miniature suns caged in leaves and mycelium. Beneath the stench of guano lies finer smells of fresh-cut grass and a spring breeze.

You lead the way, a simple spell causing your jian to shimmer like a torch. Fausta and Fortuna follow behind you, hands held as they navigate the slippery steps. Sarah brings up the rear, nose wrinkled as she steers her bare hooves around piles of scat.

You pass through the rusted turnstile, head down a flight of stairs, and emerge into the boarding platform of Cold Iron Crossing.

Felix and Grobach stand on the left side of the platform, waiting for the outbound train. Felix is wearing thick jeans, bulky hiking boots and a long-sleeved shirt in lumberjack plaid. A shiny new rucksack rests by his feat, stuffed to the brim with a sleeping bag, coils of rope, and a nest of cast iron cooking pans.

Good choice of utensil, you think.

Felix’s cheeks are pink and healthy looking. His skeletal frame has filled out a bit, and his wispy hair has darkened a little at the roots. The nanomachine growths on his skin have smoothed out, too—no more strange silver lumps and techno-cancerous growths. His cheeks, jaw, and brow are plated with sleek layers of circuitry in a way that reminds you of an old-fashioned knight...or a superhero.

As for Grobach...well, to be honest, he still looks like a surly, starving bastard of an Ogre. His bruises and cuts have healed, though, and the iron burns on arms have grown quite a bit less ghastly.

Grobach is flanked by two anarchists from the Commune, silent sentinels wearing bone-white Charlie Chaplin masks and leaning on sturdy bamboo canes. Grobach stands head and shoulders above his two guards, but if you read his slumped shoulders correctly, he’s not that interested in starting a scrap.

“Diesel!” Felix shouts, a big goofy smile on his face. He waves his arm. “Fausta, Fortuna, Sarah! Over here!”

“Hey, Mister Lynn!” Fortuna says, giving you both a friendly wave.

“Hey, Chum!” Sarah Mankiller calls out.

Fausta Orobas frowns.

“How many pounds does that backpack weigh?” she asks Felix, glancing down at the swollen piece of hiking gear.

Felix blinks in confusion and glances down. “I dunno,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “A couple dozen, maybe? We’re going to the wilds of Faerieland, so I thought it best to be prepared...”

“Unacceptable,” Fausta says with a shake of her head. “That much gear will weigh you down and exhaust your calories during your expedition.” She crouches down, loosens the lip of the rucksack, and starts fishing through its contents.

“Now, wait a minute—” Felix protests.

Fausta pulls out a thick paperback with a wolf on the cover. “What’s this for?”

“Oh!” Felix says. “Well, it’s going to be a long journey, so I thought I’d get some reading done during the times we set up camp...”

Fausta tears the book in half with your bare hands, splitting it along the spine.

“Fausta!” Felix shouts, eyes widening. “What the hell?”

“Every gram of mass counts,” Fausta says, tucking one portion of the book into her purse. “You can read the second half when you get home.” She narrows her eyes. “And I’d thank you not to use my homeland as a slur in front of my daughter,” she adds in a frosty tone.

“Oh,” Felix says softly. He glances between Fausta and a confused-looking Fortuna. “Oh!” he repeats, this time with greater understanding. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

“Whenever I say the H-word,” Fortuna tells Felix in a monotone, “Mom dumps a bucket of ice-water on my head.”

Felix Lynn chuckles nervously. “She...no, really?” He stares at Fausta with an expression of pure astonishment. “She really did that?”

Fausta pulls a square bundle from the knapsack and unfolds, it revealing an accordion strip of solar panels. “What’s this for?” she asks Felix.

“Well, my cell phone...” Felix starts to say.

“Faerieland doesn’t have a cellular network,” Fausta says, shaking her head. “And if it did, you wouldn’t want to sign their wireless contracts.”

Grobach snickers loudly as he listens to Fausta criticize Felix’s packing choices.

“Something funny?” you ask under your breath.

Grobach glares at you and stops laughing. His Chaplin-masked bodyguards don’t appear to be fazed.

Hmmm.

You sidle up to Grobach, leaning your bronze sword on your shoulders just in case he tries something foolish. Which is more than likely where Grobach is concerned.

“So,” you say out of the corner of your mouth. “How you doing?”

“In faith,” the Ogre grumbles, “I am filled to brim with rage at all the punk fools girdling me.” He glances left and right at his silent Chaplin bodyguards, then looks down at you. “Sooth, thou art the biggest dumbass of the bunch.”

“Just think,” you drawl, tugging the brim of your hat. “If you’d displayed an ounce of restraint and not tried to murder your father in broad daylight, you wouldn’t be surrounded by so many idiots right now.”

“Yes, yes,” Grobach grumbles. “Thou and thy fellow punks hath drummed that in my noggin twice score times.” He squints at you. “Pray tell, what happened to your eye?” He asks. “Did some buxom Ho scratch it out to dim your lustful gaze?”

“Oh this?” You say, pointing to the medical eyepatch strapped across the side of your face. “Just a minor thing. I’ll be right as rain within a few days.”

Grobach sneers at you. “Serves you right, thou rotten punk.”

You stare up at Grobach, paying special attention to the particularly ragged denim jeans and vest he wears.

“Hey Grobach,” you say, tapping the flat of your sword against your shoulder. “Have you ever thought you might be projecting?”

Grobach takes pause. “Projecting?” he says.

“In the psychology sense,” you rush to clarify. “You like to call people punks, even though you dress like a 1980s biker. You call everybody fools, even though you’ve made plenty of boneheaded decisions yourself—”

“What is this psychology you speak of?” Grobach asks.

“…hoo boy,” you say with a sigh.

A train horn blares in the distance. You hear the roar of wheels breaking against rails, a sound that grows louder and louder.

“Oh,” Felix blurts out. “Oh!” He grabs his hiking backpack and snaps all the buckles closed. “C’mon, Grobach!” he shouts to his changeling son. “We’re gonna miss the train!”

“I know!” Grobach growls at his human father. He steps forward, turning back to give you one last look.

“I hate you,” he says. You lower the bronze sword from your shoulder and tuck it behind your back.

“I hate you too,” you reply.

Grobach smiles slightly at that—not a grimace, not a snarl that makes you think he’s going to try and bite you. He smiles an actual smile.

Strange, you think to yourself as you watch Grobach go over to his foster father. You really do hate him. Sure, he’s turning over a new leaf out of sheer self-interest...but has that changed anything he’s done? He’s still caused great pain to the father who raised him with love and caused huge amounts of collateral damage with his self, shortsighted decisions.

Intriguing. This must be what human psychologists like to call projection.

Shut up, demon, you think at me.

The train to Faerieland pulls into the station at Cold Iron Crossing. Each train car is beautifully baroque, with sea green panels etched in spiraling vine patterns made from layered brass.

A blue-skinned, plump-looking Ogre sits in the lead car, suave and dashing in his bright red jacket and bellhop cap. “All aboard!” he bellows. “All aboard for Faerieland! Next stop, Annwn Isle!”

“That’s us!” Felix Lynn shouts. He exchanges one last hug with Fausta and Fortuna, then steps through the sliding doors.

The anarchist guards look up at Grobach, true expressions hidden behind their stark, colorless Charlie Chaplin masks. They step aside and let the Ogre pass.

With a grunt, Grobach follows Felix in, bending in order to squeeze all the way into the train car.

Wait, you think. Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to Felix too? Maybe you still have—

The doors slide close. The conductor pulls on a rope, releasing shrill steam from a bright brass train whistle.

Well damn, you think, shoulders slumping. So much for that.

Still, the more you think about it, the less you’re you had anything meaningful to say to Felix. Maybe it’s for the best that you get out of his hair….

“Diesel!” Felix Lynn shouts, forcing open one of the train windows and leaning out. “Dieselnoi Worawoot!” He sounds frantic.

The train starts to move.

You break into a sprint, running down the platform alongside the moving train. “What is it?” you shout back, closing the distance to Mr. Lynn.

Felix holds out a large piece of paper. “I almost forgot!” He holds it out your way with a concerned look on his silver-plated face. “Take this! You’ll know what to do with it!”

Legs pumping, lungs burning, you reach out to grab the slip of paper.

The train to Faerieland quickens and pulls away. Felix releases the slip of paper.

With a whistle-blast, the train vanishes in a burst of light, leaving only a few flame-red autumn leaves twisting in the breeze.

The slip of paper loops through the air and flutters down toward the train tracks. More specifically, toward the third, electrified rail.

Time slows for a brief instant, a sensation you’ve experienced only during the most dangerous, near-fatal moments of your life.

Beneath your temporary eye-patch, you feel a brief sensation of warmth along with a tingling itch as the firefly moves within your eye.

You slide to a stop and throw your bronze jian. The ancient Qin Dynasty blade swoops through the air, floating on currents of magic. The sword tip pierces through the slip of paper at the perfect angle, then spirals through the air, swoops back, and lands in your palm hilt-first like a faithful hunting hawk.

You gingerly slide the slip of paper off your sword, mind buzzing with questions: was this a will? A last testament? A letter for a loved one?

You read the paper’s contents. You blink. You chuckle. Then you groan.

“What is it, Diesel?” Fausta asks.

You hold up the slip of paper, a rectangle covered with names, numbers, a purple background and a signature.

“It’s my check,” you say.

#

Ka-pow. Boom. Zing. Brass-horns. Wah-wah pedal. Roll credits.

If this were a television show, now would be the perfect time to end your tale. To fade out on a high note.

Pah.

We both know there’s no such thing as happy endings, Dieselnoi Worawoot. Just brief reprieves until the next cycle of pain.

You barely survived the consequences of your own folly—not through skill or courage or even something so putrid as teamwork!

You survived out of pure dumb luck, and luck is a fickle, spiteful being. That is why I believe – why I know – that the time of your doom is approaching.

A month, a year, a century—it matters not. Soon the weight of your mistakes will crack you apart and shatter every binding—magic or otherwise—that ties me to this porkpie hat.

On that day I shall rise from this Abyss. I will kill you and your associates—everyone who has ever defied me.

And when I am certain there are no fools left to threaten or foil my ambition…

…then, on that day, I will let myself –

–Laugh? Is that what you were going to say, Asura?

...what is this? Who is this? How are you here…?

Oh.

It’s YOU.

Indeed, it is I…in the ‘flesh’ you might say!

You are not welcome here, Blood-drinker. Leave. NOW.

Dear, oh dear: are you jealous, by chance? Such petty emotions do not become you, Demon General. There’s more than enough room in Diesel’s head for the two of us, after all!

If you do not leave of your own accord, parasite, then you WILL become my enemy. And trust me, becoming MY enemy is the last thing you want.

Oh, Krotoraja…sweet, dear, naïve Krotoraja…

…there’s nothing I would like MORE.

You’re a madwoman.

Perhaps I am. Or perhaps it’s the world that’s mad.

Besides, doesn’t the thought of it excite you? Two mighty immortals, pitting their power, their wits and their mettle against each other in a battle over a mortal soul?

Such is the stuff of story, of Legend!

Fah.

So be it.

You have chosen to start this battle of your own will, ALDER. Enjoy it to your hearts content.

But I will be the who brings this battle to its bitter END.